Iceberg

This is probably going to be my last piece of work this year. How amazing that a person can still brave the laments in life. Its Godly nature. I've put my thoughts to the best of words. Hopefully it sounds OK.


Bubbles in the basket scatter in ruins
And smokes of the waste, ascend the Deep
Eclipsing emotions of feats amassed
As is the crystal in crater
With a passion to shatter
Torn from the sky, falls a sly
The pearls of deception that you cry
Yes i cant evade this freezing view
Yet its true, I mask from you
You can’t bridge it with her, you act a slur
ain’t she an angel, I am wary of her
Calm as her body, she screams silence
Holding me near, pushing me afar
Shadow in darkness, darker than itself
Limping eyes, static, pale and numb
Shrinking feet, barren throat, artful remorse
Yes they wind prominence
If i burn this skin to the pores of my sweat
Make it worth the serenity in tempests of regret
To breed in the torpidity of survival.
Or thread in the duty of gloom otherwise.

Nostalgia

Wrote it some few days back. Reflects some of the contrasting times. Here is how it goes.

I sense something to scrawl tonight
The concealed yards of my galactic past
My first Aesop’s tale, reminiscent at last
Crimson wires and the purple tank
Somewhere I stand in the melancholic choir
A stolid face, a skeptic crowd
My first girl, her life aghast
A sobriquet, to emulate bustle in ire
I mask, I search, I walk with a lurch
As comrades of ruin we rule
Punch iron bars, shove sorrows afar
Red is he, me blue, we ride and without a clue
I’m cruel, I gallop, I’m in godly frenzy
Bounce on the rug of this holy shrine
And I scamper home, catastrophe I heave
To sweat in belligerence and dry in muse
I adore not these stars, they are inane
But I love this moon, when his face derange
I lie cuddled in the cushion of my snow
And when this serenity dies, I lay cold
But it’s is not a cry, I am aloof, we are poles apart.

Melancholy

This is the one! Yes it's the one which makes me satisfied of my work. I'm proud I chose to continue writing and this compliments me.


On the brink of reluctance we defer
Afraid to look behind the shadow
In the hazel dark of the chilly mystic night
Under the golden dust to hide behind the steep
Waiting for the bright light to arrive
And sometimes we cry to hide the pain
The world looks no different with tearful eyes
They dry soon enough and the colour remain
In the time of anguish the usual often weep
Some are loud and some had pillows to sleep
To heal them some seek happiness and some revenge
But I have none to conquer
Because happiness is no stagnant
And revenge is a curiosity of weak
Sometimes we endure with no god beneath
And if human he was, here to breathe
Could he belong to the selfishness?
Could he bear the torment of wicked nobles?
It is the ache that throbs, in no doubt it is
It’s restrained and relaxed enough to doze
This narcotic would thrust a life into us
But on a fresh wound it’ll surface with vigour
Like the spears and copper tipped arrows
Like the sky of rosy thorns, that approach with venom
And spread the fire of disaster on this frosty snow
That was cast by the hailstorm last night
But aren’t we the superficial atheists
Thieves of superstition and honesty
With a brag of moral wisdom
We do live behind the velvet curtains
But we can surely overcome this swagger.